


The Convention - The Second Con (Day 11: Making out)

by drownedinblissfulconfusion (tundraeternal)



Series: The Convention [11]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Conventions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tundraeternal/pseuds/drownedinblissfulconfusion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30-Day OTP Challenge</p><p>A succession of Cockles ficlets, set at a fictional convention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Convention - The Second Con (Day 11: Making out)

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not personally know any of the people I'm writing about. As far as I'm concerned, these are fictional characters in some alternate universe, which exists someplace between our own and the French Drop universe, who happen to bear superficial resemblance to our boys (and girls). Their conversations, personalities, and innermost thoughts are generally extrapolated from plausible reality, occasionally made up from whole cloth.

The Second Con (Day 11: Making out)

Jensen is smiling when he gets off the plane. It’s another weekend, another convention, generic airport, generic hotel. But it’s been nearly three weeks since he last saw Misha, tousled and grumpy in bed as Jensen woke him to say goodbye. Tonight he’ll get to see him again, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t spent the flight planning exactly what he’ll do to Misha once they’re alone.

He feels like a teenager again; this thing between them is new and exciting, and the anticipation is a thrill. Not to mention the perks of excellent sex to help relieve his convention stress. He catches the driver eyeing him in the rearview mirror and tries to turn down his smile to a socially acceptable level. Men riding alone in the backs of cabs are not usually supposed to be so happy.

* * * * *

Jensen’s quiet glee is nothing compared to Misha’s giddiness. As Jensen tries to sneak across the lobby to check in, Misha comes out of nowhere, barrelling into him from behind, and shoves a tongue into Jensen’s ear. 

“Inappropriate much?” Jensen can’t help but laugh. “How many little airplane bottles of vodka have you had.”

“Too many to count, my friend!” Misha slaps him on the ass. For a minute, Jensen’s worried that someone will see them and guess their secret. But then he startles to the realization that they’ve always behaved this way to each other. No wonder people assume they’ve been sleeping together for years. 

* * * * *

The enforced limit on their time together is doing wonderful, terrible things to Jensen’s libido. They have to make every minute together count, but unfortunately, most of their minutes are already accounted for. This is a job, after all, like any other. So when Misha looks up at him from across the room and licks his lips, it’s all Jensen can do not to drag him upstairs immediately. 

But the second they’ve both been released from obligations for a half hour, their eyes meet, and they’re out the door. Jensen’s trying to figure out logistics of how long it’ll take to get upstairs and whether the service elevator might be a good bet, when Misha puts a hand on his hip and steers him through a doorway. 

“What-” Jensen begins

“I thought a little getaway room might come in handy, so I bribed one of the staff for the key,” Misha answers, as he snaps the door lock behind them. 

It’s a small conference room--just a corporate-looking table with six chairs around it--so it’s not a surprise the convention didn’t find a use for it. 

“Why Misha Collins, you kinky bastard. Are you going to take me on top of that table?”

“I’m going to take you everywhere in this damn room until we run out of time or you can’t walk straight.” Misha makes good on the threat and puts his hands on Jensen’s hips,  
pushing, backing him towards the table. When Jensen’s ass connects with the edge, he boosts himself up onto it, and spreads his knees, pulling Misha between them. 

“God, I’ve been waiting all day to do this to you,” he whispers, his lips hovering above Misha’s, their breaths mingling between them. 

Misha nips at him playfully before palming the back of Jensen’s head and holding him still. Misha kisses him, firm and deliberate, until both of their focus is solely occupied by the press of tongues and lips. Three weeks apart was just long enough to make them desperate for each other, to heighten their delight in each point of contact. Jensen strokes along Misha’s sides, smooths careless thumbs along his ribs. The sense of urgency fades, slowing with their kisses, until their thoughts are not of ‘more’ but of ‘this, now’. 

Jensen marvels at how comfortably they’ve slipped into this situation. He wonders if it always would have been this easy to fit themselves together, or whether the years of friendship and camaraderie have paved their way to these sweet kisses. He can’t quite bring himself to feel the time was wasted, though, not when everything now is so right. He feels the rasp of Misha’s stubble as he kisses along his jaw, from mouth up to ear, to take the lobe between his teeth and relish Misha’s sharp breath. 

Misha’s hand, hot on the back of Jensen’s neck, moves up into his hair to scrape short nails along his scalp. It makes Jensen arch like a cat, and Misha takes advantage, to run his tongue along Jensen’s throat, feeling his pulse jump. With a controlled motion, he leans into Jensen to push him back until he’s flat against the table. Not bothering with the removal of clothing, Misha pushes Jensen’s shirt up to expose his chest and goes straight to work. He scrapes nails lightly over Jensen’s nipples until they’re hard nubs, which Misha then works with tongue and teeth, moving from one to the other until Jensen’s writhing beneath him on the faux-mahogany finish. Just as the sensation is starting to edge the line between pleasure and pain, Misha moves down, kissing sedately from Jensen’s sternum to his navel, which he dips his tongue into to make Jensen squirm.  
“Misha if you start tickling me with your tongue, so help me God-”

Misha chuckles and rubs his cheek along Jensen’s stomach by way of apology. Jensen runs his hands through Misha’s dark, disheveled hair. When Misha begins to flick open the buttons on his jeans, Jensen reaches for his shoulders to hold himself steady. He cants his hips up so that Misha can pull down jeans and boxers, gasping as his erection catches and then slides free of his waistband. He has barely time to catch his breath before Misha is drawing a finger slowly up the underside of his cock. Just as he reaches the head, he drops his hand, and Jensen lets out a whine. 

“A little patience, honestly!” Misha admonishes. 

But then the finger is replaced by Misha’s tongue, and Jensen’s noises change pitch, turning to gasping groans. He kneads at Misha’s shoulders as Misha curls his tongue around Jensen’s length, licking from the base up to the head and back. Misha leans back for a moment to wet one finger in his mouth, then presses it just behind Jensen’s balls, stroking small and slow. As Jensen is distracted by the sensation, Misha wets his lips and sucks Jensen into his mouth, tongue teasing his slit as he bumps up against the roof of Misha’s mouth. When Misha starts to suck, still curving his tongue along the shaft all the while, Jensen swears out loud. No one’s blown him like this since, well, maybe forever.  
He tips his head up slightly, dying to watch. The view is worth it. Misha’s pretty pink lips look perfect and obscene wrapped around his cock. Misha’s eyes are closed and he’s rocking his own hips with the rhythm of his mouth, grinding into thin air. It’s too much for Jensen. 

“Mish--” he warns abortively, but Misha doesn’t pull off as Jensen comes, he just relaxes, swallowing as Jensen spills down his throat. He pulls off, running his tongue up the ultra-sensitive skin as he goes, to make sure he’s missed nothing. He licks a stripe along the line of Jensen’s hip, and then allows Jensen to pull him up for a kiss, languid and sloppy, faintly bitter. 

“Misha,” he breaths, as Misha rests against his chest, letting Jensen take his weight, 

“you’re so fucking hot, you have no idea.” 

“Mm, I think I have some idea. You should have seen your face a minute ago.” 

“You little shit.” Jensen would put some vehemence behind it, but at the moment all he can manage is affectionate indignation. 

Jensen glances at the clock on the way. “We’ve still got about ten minutes before anyone will miss us. Probably fifteen before anyone comes looking.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Your turn?”

“Well, only if you think you’re up for it.”

“I think the question is, are you up for it?” He palms Misha’s dick, hard and ready, through his jeans. “Yeah, I’d say you definitely are.”

“Alright, hot shot. What are you gonna do about it?”

Jensen shows him.


End file.
